Valor
by GULLINBURSTI
Summary: Without a catalyst to spark the flames of rebellion, District 13 was uprooted by the Capitol and hope in the Districts of Panem was obliterated in the bloodbath of the Victors Quell. But when the Quarter Quell that marks the 100th anniversary of the Games creates a new level of disgust within the people, there may be time yet for a revolution.
1. Prologue

PROLOGUE

The Districts of Panem dreamed of a rebellion. They whispered fantasies of an uprising—carefully, between the cracks of their shambled homes and factories. It gave them hope that one day the rumors would prove themselves to be true, and an army of underground forces would rise to overthrow the Capitol. Then, the Hunger Games would be abolished, and families would no longer be subjected to the public execution of their children.

But a revolution cannot spark without a catalyst, and no icon rose above the poverty-stricken people on mockingjay wings to stir them.

The 74th Annual Hunger Games came and went, and on the eve of the 75th, Panem's third Quarter Quell, leagues of armed Peacekeepers dragged the rebel forces of District 13 out of their underground sanctuary, executed the leaders and Capitol traitors, and enslaved the remaining population under the threat of genocide. Scared into submission, the tournament of victors only helped to weaken the morale of the Districts, who had been effectively shown the truth behind the decree that not even the strongest among them could overcome the Capitol.

Tensions were high, but over the course of the next 25 years, Panem wound back down to its old routine of fear and subjugation. That was, until the announcement of the 100th Annual Hunger Games—a Quarter Quell horrific enough to honor the prestigious anniversary of the Games. On that day, the current Tyrant of Panem decreed:

_This year's Quarter Quell serves to remind us all that not even the youngest of children were spared from the chaos of warfare. The tributes for the 100__th__ Annual Hunger Games will be reaped from a pool of citizens 6-12 years of age._

That bloodbath was the final motivation they needed. The people of Panem formed a silent pact to change, and for the next decade they prepared, in secret, for when the moment to act would present itself.


	2. Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Most people can't sleep the night before reaping day. I've always found little trouble in falling asleep, even once my name started getting entered into the drawing, and last night was no exception. In fact, I slept too much, stuck in a dream that I didn't want to have. But I couldn't wake myself up. I had to wait for the dream to be done with me, and spit me out into the cramped comforts of my chilled cot. And when I awake, I find that I don't feel as if I had slept at all, though judging by the amount of sun filling up the room, I've been out far longer than I should have been.

Before I can even right myself, I curl onto my side and lean over the edge of my mattress, my chest convulsing in spastic heaves. I want to be sick—properly sick—to expel all the anxieties that are already beginning to fill my stomach, but there's nothing solid inside of me to be rid of. So I wait until I feel well enough to stretch my body out, limb by limb, and then slowly climb out of bed on wobbling legs.

It's always so quiet on this day, every year. Not even the usually-constant sounds from the District 8 factories, which never seem to stop churning out uniform after uniform for the Peacekeepers, are running today. It makes me uncomfortable, because the quiet is eerie and full of foreboding. Although the factories are not at all pleasant to listen to, and poison our air with fumes that nobody should have to breathe, it has always filled me with a sense of peace. As long as the factories are still whirring away, I know that everything is normal. Normalcy helps me feel less afraid.

"Uncle?" Although I call out for him, my voice hoarse from fitful sleep, I know he's not going to answer me. Every other day of the year, he practically drags me out of bed, rushing me off to school and work. But on reaping day, he can hardly stand to look at me. Even before last year, when it was my first year eligible to be a tribute, he would hurry out of the house before I woke up, and I wouldn't see him again until dark. It hardly bothers me, but even if it did, I couldn't bring myself to resent him for it.

His younger sister, my mother, was chosen as tribute for the 98th Annual Hunger Games, just weeks after I was born. She never made it home. My Uncle hid all of her pictures, so the only real memory I have of her is from old footage of her year in the Games. Everyone tells me that she was young, but so in love. All I can see is the axe going through her temple. Even though I try not to imagine her that way—running for her life and screaming as she was murdered, I replay it in my dreams every year, the night before reaping day. And when I wake up, I feel sick. Always the same.

I feel tears sting behind my eye—the one that still works. I lost complete sight and function of my left eye after an accident in the factory I'm stationed in a couple years ago, when I was just starting and didn't quite understand the machinery. All that's left now is a blackened mass of scar tissue. So I bite my lip, and distract myself by getting a bath ready, because I don't want to cry, even though I'm alone. The water is cold, but refreshing as I try to scrub the grime and smog off of me. The Capitol likes us to try and look at leas a bit presentable for the broadcast. I'm fortunate enough to have a set of nice clothes that I haven't outgrown yet; probably just a result of malnourishment, but I don't like to dwell on my small stature for too long. Otherwise, I feel like a mouse, and mice aren't taken to very kindly around District 8.

Sluggishly, I pull on my dark pants, button-up shirt, and light blue sweater vest. Then I slip into my too-big shoes, and head outside to face the day. I consider briefly going back and eating maybe a piece of what stale bread we have left, but decide against it. I don't have much of an appetite, anyway, and I doubt I'd be able to keep much down if I tried.

Everyone is heading toward the square with equal lack of exuberance. For a few moments, I just watch them, not wanting to stand in line with the other thirteen-year-old boys, in front of the stage that's been erected overnight, surrounded by Peacemakers and cameras. Cameras make me nervous, even when they aren't focused on me. I feel like there's a whole world inside of them, watching me, even though I know that nothing will get to an audience until it's been pre-viewed and edited by the Capitol. When I finally coax myself to walk, my feet are heavy, as if they've been filled with cement. I drag my feet, scuffing the soles of my nice shoes, and try hard to focus on breathing.

I want to tell myself that the odds are in my favor. It's only my second year in the drawing, and without a large family to support, I've hardly had to sign up for a tesserae. Soon, someone else's name will get called, and I can go back to making uniforms at the factory. I'll have another year left to myself. Another year of peaceful whirring. But then I remember how the odds weren't in my mother's favor, and I have to stop for a minute and put my head between my legs until I don't feel so dizzy.

I keep walking, falling in line with all the other citizens until we've been signed in and sorted. Everyone around me looks sullen and ghostly, with eyes full of defeat, so I decide to stare largely at the dirt and stone underneath my feet. The only thing effectively that stirs my attention is the screech of the microphone that's been placed on center-stage, as it bursts to life. Behind it stands a woman dressed head-to-toe in such a painful shade of yellow that I have to squint to see her properly. I'm wondering if she's supposed to look like a sunflower, or a star, or thought she was being considerate by adding color to our otherwise gray and urban District, when she beings to prattle on about the Capitol and the history of the Hunger Games. A knot forms in my throat when the anthem plays, and I close my eye when the footage of the rebels being forced out of the ruins of District 13 at gunpoint plays. Always the same tape. They drag out the rebels, shoot their leaders, and then President Duncan shakes his head at us sadly, implores us to keep the peace so this never has to happen again.

I'm just glad when the sound of gunfire stops, and the screens go blank.

"And now, the moment you've all been waiting for," trills the makeshift sunshine, giddy enough for the entire District's lack-there-of, "it's time to select the lucky contestants for the 111th Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor. As is tradition, let's find out who our lovely lady will be, first…"

She nearly knocks over the microphone stand as she tramps her high shoes over to one of two clear bowls, and pulls out a piece of paper. I can practically hear the tension in the silence of the crowd around me.

"Ginger Hale!"

Moans of outrage are mixed with breaths of relief all at once. Someone sitting at the back of the stage staggers forward, and all attention turns to her before the girl in question can step forward. The young woman, well-dressed according to her status as a victor, is restrained by Peacekeepers before she can get a single step closer to the frantic announcer.

"You can't! You can't take her," she screams, and I feel my heart wrench because I know it isn't fair. The woman—Ember Hale—won just three years ago. And now, so soon, her younger sister is chosen. I have no doubt in my mind that Ember would volunteer if she could, but she's over eighteen and already participated. In fact, Ember tries anyway, and the other woman on the stage struggles to keep her composure. "I'm sorry, but rules are rules!"

Ember is in tears, trying to claw her way to freedom, pretty blonde hair ripped out of its ponytail and falling over her face, which is twisted in a frightening mix of disbelief and anger. The Peacekeepers have no choice but to drag her out of the square until the end of the ceremony. That's when they call for Ginger again, and the younger of the two sisters steps away from the crowd and approaches the stage. A girl grown quickly soft from luxury, everyone knows her as a brilliant dressmaker who dreams of designing fashion for the Capitol. She's beautiful, eighteen, and utterly clueless when it comes to survival.

Nobody wants to say it, but if Ginger gets sent to the Games, she'll easily be one of the first to die. But none of us will take her place.

I think about how sad I'll be to see her go. Nobody ever minded her for the excess she was provided by her sister's victory in the 108th Hunger Games. She was always willing to share what she had, and always a great person to talk to when you were feeling down or insecure. At least, those were my experiences with Ginger. I watch as she gives a bashful curtsy before the woman from the Capitol, and even goes so far as to make an awkward apology on behalf of her sister. I tear my eye away from the girl on the stage, who looks so much more like sunshine than the one dressed in yellow, because I'm thinking about how if my mother was still alive, she would have been a lot like Ginger: foolish and reckless, but always so willing to give.

Except I don't have any more time to think about it, because Lewis Marx is being called forward to join Ginger on the stage. And that's my name.

My knees buckle underneath me, and I swear I've fainted.


	3. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Another boy standing behind me is quick to grab my shoulders before I can slump forward, and I apparently stay conscious. I don't even realize that I'm walking until I've made it to the stage, but even then I feel disjointed from the world around me. My lower lip quivers as I hold back hysterics—I was not a soul born to be put on a stage of any sort, but this turn of events has sent me beyond my wildest nightmares. I'm only vaguely aware of being asked a couple of questions to answer for the camera, but when I find a microphone thrust under my chin, my stammering is so incessant that our yellow host yanks it back just as hastily.

It isn't until Ginger and I are being herded away that I get the idea to look for my Uncle—to spot his face in the crowd and see whether or not he's happy. The idea that he's grateful to be rid of the child he promised to raise makes me sick to my stomach, but somehow it troubles me even more to think that I'm causing him further misery by making him relive the death of his sister. I crane my neck over my shoulder, but the Peacekeepers push me harder when I do, and suddenly the crowd is blocked from my view completely.

Walls surround me. I find myself in a private room of the Justice Building, alone. A single door separates me from a line of Peacekeepers. There's a wail rising in my throat, a solitary force of all my morning anxiety bubbling through me like froth, and I want to let it spill out of me and leave me empty. I want to cry—to bawl and snivel and get it all out of my system so I can surrender with no resistance to my death—because I've never been the stoic type who can hide what they're feeling to appear stronger than they actually are. The simple fact is that I'm not strong, I'm weak. A weak, underfed, overemotional little boy who is going to be dead before he even turns fourteen.

I choke back my sobs, only because I don't want the Peacekeepers to hear me, but take a seat on the floor and stick my head in between my legs, unable to control the panicked tremors wracking my body. I can hardly breathe. All I can think about is how I have absolutely no idea what I'm going to do, or how I should try to handle it. Regardless, my thoughts are scattered, falling over themselves as they fight for the position at the forefront of my brain. I'm so preoccupied that I don't hear the door when it opens, but look up from hearing a familiar _clack-clack-clack _against the floorboards.

The widowed Ms. Gracie stands before me, shrunken and hunched in her old age. She was my mother's schoolteacher, but although she had retired to a less taxing job by the time I was old enough to start receiving an education, myself, she had always taken time to visit me and greeted me with a smile of her crooked teeth. I had come to learn over the years that she must have been very close to my family. Now, her mouth is set in a grim line, her eyes so sharp you'd think she was thirty years younger. I've never seen her look this way.

My fingers are cramped from how hard I've been clenching them so I'm not completely sure if I've been sitting for a few minutes or a few hours when I make to stand. It's only respectful to stand for the elderly, and I don't want to be impolite just because my life expectancy has dropped to the foreseeable future. I try to articulate some sort of greeting, but this only results in me feeling my eye sting from a new rush of emotions. Biting my lip, I avert my gaze. It would have just been easier not to have to say goodbye to anyone. To content myself in the fantasy that maybe my permanent absence would set some sort of peace in the heart of my tired, sad Uncle. I couldn't do that now. And honestly, I'm actually a bit surprised she came to see me at all. That anyone came, family or otherwise. Even so, I can't help the pang of regret that I feel knowing that it _isn't_ my Uncle who has come to say goodbye.

Ms. Gracie—I never have been able to bring myself to refer to her without the title—doesn't say anything at first, making me uncomfortable as I'm sure she's using the silence to look me over and assess how long she thinks I'll be able to last in the arena. Then, she comes closer to me, grabs one of the hands quivering at my sides, and drops a small, cool object into it before closing my fingers around it with her own. They look so wizened against mine as they form a cocoon of warm and comfort.

"Don't hold it against him, my boy," she says gently, shaking her head. I stare dumbly. "He's a broken man."

"I know," I reply without enthusiasm. But I'm thinking about how broken I'll be when the other tributes, and the Capitol, are done with me.

I don't even think to open my hand until she prompts me to do so with a nod. I uncurl my fingers slowly, revealing a ring. It's simple and a bit scratched from use, a thick silver band with swirled patterns down the side—but the obvious focal point is the round gemstone placed in the center. Staring at me is an emerald that's lost most of its shine. It almost matches the color of my eye, especially now that it has become dulled and worn. I can't tell if it's real, seeing as I have no experience with jewels, but I can't help thinking how much it must be worth if it is. And how many people this simple luxury could feed in our District. The only reason someone would dare keep this here is if they were a Victor, or it had great sentimental value.

Ms. Gracie doesn't have to wait for me to ask. "It was your mother's," she explained in her warbling tones. My attention is immediately captured. "She received it as a gift from your father, before you were born…she wore it as a token in the arena, but before she left, asked me to take it and keep it for you, if she didn't…well, you know."

I did know. And I didn't want to imagine Ms. Gracie opening my mother's coffin, and slipping it off her finger before my Uncle could snatch it and hide it from me like he hides everything else that reminds him of her. My heart swells, and it suddenly feels so much heavier in my palm as my mother becomes a tangible entity in my life instead of just a face on a screen.

"Put it on," Ms. Gracie encourages. I do.

"Thank you," I manage to choke out while I run my thumb over the face of the gem that now weighs down my right hand. Somehow, I feel more substantial. As if there's something tethering me to life. Like I have someone to fight—and live—for. Even if she, herself, isn't living anymore.

There's hardly time for me to see that crooked smile of Ms. Gracie's spread once more across her withered lips before she's ushered rudely out of the room, and I'm directed out as well. Surrounded from all sides by a block of Peacekeepers, it's hard to tell exactly where I'm going until they deposit me onto the train that will take Ginger and me to the Capitol to face our fate. Our Capitol representative—who I learned is named Bliss Hill—stands excitedly before me, cooing at me to find a seat. Ginger arrives shortly after I do.

I try to focus on what I'm being told, but I find myself far too distracted by the wide array of food decorating the compartment. I've never once seen anything so beautiful—I wonder if this is what it looks like in Ginger's mansion. At once I feel both my mouth watering and stomach churning. I want to eat—in fact, I'm encouraged to do so, but as I reach for a warm buttered roll, a puffy-eyed Ember comes out of a door leading to a separate car in the train. I immediately lose my appetite, and let my arm fall back against my side.

She waits, almost hostile, until Bliss gets flustered enough from Ember's stare to apologize to us that she has some matters to attend to and scampers off through another door. Once we're alone, she rushes to embrace her sister, burying her head into Ginger's collar.

"I'm so sorry," she says, over and over like a chant while the two cradle one another. "I'm so, so sorry."

The longer they hold each other, the more uncomfortable I become. Suddenly, it hits me. Ember isn't going to help me. Mentor or not, her primary focus is—and always has been—her sister. She doesn't want me to die, I'm sure, but she most certainly does not want me to come out of this alive. If I'm unprepared for survival, it only means one less life in the way of Ginger's safe return. I suppose I should have realized this earlier, but I had been so sick to my stomach with the shock of being called in the first place I had somehow been able to hold onto that hope.

Now, I don't feel anything besides an overwhelming rush of helplessness. Up until this point, I've been largely invisible to the company present, but regardless I step quietly backward, and excuse myself to my room. Of course, the instant I turn, I crash into a stand holding a plate of assorted treats, making a loud clang that resonates to my toes and colors my cheeks. Embarrassed and not wanting to look over my shoulder to see the eyes that are surely staring ruefully at me, I shakily sidestep around a silent worker who had bent to clean the mess and dart out of sight.

My heart pounds in my chest, sending every beat clamoring inside my ears. It's all I can do to actually make it to my room and close the door behind me before I finally break completely. My legs give out beneath me and I slump to the floor, where I cry and cry and cry until there are no more tears left to stain the right side of my face. Then I somehow find my way to the large bed stationed oppressively in the middle of the room, kick my shoes off onto the floor, and fall into a solid sleep where not even my mother visits me.

That, at least, is something I can be glad for.


End file.
